


Heavy On Me

by dawnperhaps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angelcest, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnperhaps/pseuds/dawnperhaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel finds Michael after the older archangel escapes the Cage and, as they heal the physical wounds, they uncover some emotional ones that could use some healing as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTrickyOwl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTrickyOwl/gifts).



> This is dedicated to Kylie, who wrote me a beautiful Micabe story. I love you, darling, and, although I could never be half as wonderful as you, I hope you enjoy anyway. This breaks my rule of “No Micabe post-series beginning,” but I couldn’t help myself.

The moment Michael escapes the cage, it’s as if a bomb goes off on the angelic radar.  Angels do not appear in their true forms without becoming a dull glow in the minds of the other angels, connected by love or whatever it is that God thought would be strong enough to hold them all together.  Michael, once Heaven’s most powerfully felt presence, has been lost to the cage for so long that most angels have forgotten what it feels like to have his support, his leadership, and, occasionally, his wrath.  His reappearance on one of the living planes is so intense, so incredibly profound, that he might as well have sent up the universe’s brightest signal flare.

For the first time since his losing battle against Lucifer, Gabriel is taken off guard.

It lances through him, the archangelic part of him, primal and ancient and almost entirely unwelcome after all these years.  Gabriel has cut himself off.  He hasn’t felt that connection inside of him since Lucifer’s fingers were physically brushing up against his Grace as it spilled from his body.  He shouldn’t be feeling this; he shouldn’t be feeling anything.  But he does, oh _Father_ , he _does_.  It’s a cold sort of electricity, waking every celestial nerve he has left and setting them ablaze.  There’s a wine glass shattered around his feet, but he barely notices, his hands flying to his face as he falls to his knees, narrowly avoiding the scattered pieces of crystal.  There’s a sort of ringing in his ears, loud and crisp and a little bit desperate.  It’s more than a ringing, completely overtaking his senses, and Gabriel realizes with a sharp inhale that it’s Michael’s voice.  It’s not an earthly language or even Enochian, but some sort of primitive noise, meaningless but powerfully deafening.  It’s been so long since Gabriel has heard Michael, truly heard his actual voice, and the noise is a little foreign, but there’s no mistaking the feeling that the beacon of Michael’s Grace ignites in him, filled with bitterness, sorrow, longing, and the lingering pieces of a long forgotten affection.

He barely thinks before spreading his wings, alcohol and his newly conjured buffet of desserts forgotten as he takes to the air.  He doesn’t know what he’s thinking.  Mostly, he isn’t thinking at all.  He hasn’t left his little pocket dimension in years.  For all the garrison knows, he’s dead, killed by Lucifer and only another victim of the poisonous, fratricidal war.  It’s lonely, but he was used to the loneliness before the Winchesters wrecked the delicate balance of the world and he easily readjusted to being lonely once more.  Anything is better than the fighting and the murder.  So why he’s racing towards the effective grave of one of the brothers who championed such behavior is beyond him, but he just knows he has to get there first, has to make sure there isn’t a demon waiting to finish the job or, even worse, an angel.

He’s there within moments.  It’s night, the darkness covering the cemetery in shadow, but Gabriel can feel the crunch of yellow, straw-like grass beneath his feet.  He doesn’t need to see to know that the place is a barren wasteland, probably trying to put itself out of its misery.  It reeks of desolation and death and Gabriel can feel the borrowed memories floating up from the graves and the ground.  He draws his blade, ready to be taken by surprise by whatever wants the first shot at Michael, but nothing ever comes.  The idea that, for once, he was faster than Raphael is almost laughable, but things in Heaven don’t operate as smoothly as they once did.

A crumpled body catches his eye and sends him into a sprint.  Falling beside the figure is probably reckless; he doesn’t know how long the cage has been closed.  For all he knows, Raphael could have already been here and this could be a trap, but in the moment, all he can see is the broken form of Adam Milligan, shirtless and curled up on the ground, barely clinging to life.

And, well, he is an angel, after all.

“Adam?” Gabriel calls, touching the kid’s shoulder as gently as he can.  He’s incredibly conscious of the fact that the youngest Winchester has spent the past year in Hell, probably being torn to pieces as his flesh burned, but his gentle touch doesn’t rouse the kid.  On further inspection, Gabriel finds that he can’t find any of Adam Milligan in the body before him, not even the shredded remnants of a soul.

“... Michael?” he tries instead, and, sure enough, otherworldly blue eyes open and stare up at Gabriel with a blankness that could only belong to an angel.  It takes a moment, but those eyes finally focus on him, widening and filling with the slightest hints of emotion.

“Gabriel?” Michael breathes, his raspy voice filled with shock and confusion.  “You’re dead.”

“I wish,” Gabriel admits, distracted.  Michael’s eyes are bright, too bright, his Grace so close to the surface, begging to be freed from the body that is in agony.  But Michael’s Grace obviously isn’t unscathed either.  Physical injuries can be easily dealt with, but Michael is weak in a way that speaks of deeper damage and he hasn’t healed himself yet, which leads Gabriel to assume the worst.

“How are you alive?” Michael asks.  He almost sounds grateful, but Gabriel detects a hint of suspicion in his voice as well.

“How are you out of the cage?” Gabriel counters, and Michael winces at the mention of Hell.  Gabriel tries to ignore the way that makes his heart climb into his throat.

“Michael, where’s Adam?” he asks almost desperately, eyes doing a quick scan over the field.

Michael’s shadowed eyes flash with betrayal, but he grits his teeth and answers.  “Heaven.”

“Heaven?” Gabriel repeats, alarmed by how many things that could mean.  The idea that that poor kid could be trapped in Heaven somewhere being punished for his spectacular ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time is more than enough to turn Gabriel’s stomach.

“With his mother,” Michael qualifies.  Gabriel frowns in confusion, but before he can ask more, Michael lets out a sound that isn’t entirely earthly, a cross between an angelic scream and the moan of a wounded animal, curling in on himself.  Gabriel squints into the darkness, but he can’t access the damage.

 “I think now would be the time to get rolling,” he tells Michael, glancing behind him quickly.  He goes to take a hold of Michael’s arm to sling it over his shoulder, but the other angel yelps at the touch and Gabriel pulls his hands away to find it covered in blood.  Cold terror sinks into his bones.  “Mike…”

“Wings.”

It’s a barely audible sound.  Michael’s voice is as thin and weak as gossamer, but Gabriel hears it.  He stills, thinking of all the things that could mean, all the damage that could refer to.  Even after many of his toughest battles, Michael would limp back to the front of the line, grimacing but fighting through the pain.  He hasn’t seen Michael in a while, but this weak and defeated creature in front of him might as well be a stranger.

Someone could follow them in the air, but Gabriel is too afraid to waste anymore time.  He lifts his fingers to Michael’s temple.

“Leave me,” Michael croaks out.  “Raphael will come.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Gabriel mutters.  He doesn’t bother to wait for permission before he reaches into his Grace, finds his pocket dimension, and takes to the air, gently shifting the reality around them.  Michael manages to remain still during the flight, and Gabriel tries to convince himself that's a good sign.  When they touch down, Michael stays on his feet and, for one moment, Gabriel hopes it wasn't as serious as he suspected.

One look at Michael dashes that hope quick enough to make his head spin.

In the light of Gabriel’s cozy little cabin, the extent of the damage is visible, and Gabriel feels his vessel gag reflex kick in as soon as he has a chance to step back.  Adam Winchester’s body is covered in ugly, bubbled up burns, raw patches of flesh in reds and blacks and purples scattered around his torso and shoulders, even his face.  Some of the burns are deep, dark, and specifically shaped, as if someone pressed hot iron against his flesh and held it there until the skin gave way.  His wrists are bruises and badly burned, as if he was restrained with heated shackles.  Gabriel’s wide eyes follow the crisscrossing pattern of razor cuts across his chest, accompanied by the occasion shallow stab wound, some still oozing blood.  All of that would be nothing – the body is, after all, only a vessel – but Michael is grimacing and Gabriel knows he felt every pinprick.  There is a sheen to his body that any angel would easily recognize.  Holy oil.  Once again, Gabriel barely stops himself from dry heaving.  He can’t bear to think of the condition the archangel’s wings must be in.

Michael glances around quickly, confusion and a little bit of fear clear in his eyes, and Gabriel wonders what happened in Hell, if Michael thinks this is all an illusion.  It is, of course, but it’s one of Gabriel’s more friendly illusions, not one of Lucifer’s torture devices.

“You look like you lost a fight with a wood chipper,” Gabriel tells him, trying to sound flippant about it and just draw Michael’s attention back to him.  Michael just looks up at him wearily before stumbling a bit, causing Gabriel to jump forward to catch him.  Michael instinctively tries to squirm away from him and Gabriel quickly steps back, letting Michael clumsily clamor over to the bed.  He follows the older archangel cautiously, watching as he curls up on his side and squeezes his eyes shut.

“What happened?” Gabriel asks flatly.

Michael opens his eyes to level Gabriel with a halfhearted glare.  “Hell.”

“Did Lucifer-”

“Yes,” Michael interrupts.  “Everything.  Yes.”

“Don’t suppose you thought about, I don’t know… fighting back?” Gabriel says, irrationally angry.  The flood of annoyance only makes him feel tired; he’s spent far too much of his life being angry with Michael.  It’s just automatic reaction, but still a painful one.

“Hell isn’t exactly my element,” Michael sighs.

“And Lucifer doesn’t exactly fight fair,” Gabriel has to admit.  Michael is a genius with a sword, but when it comes to razors, teeth, and hair pulling, he’s not the strongest fighter.

“No,” Michael agrees.  A shudder runs through him as he adds, “And once he got me down, I… stayed down.”  He closes his eyes again, curling in on himself a bit more.  “I’m not even entirely sure this is real.  I’m probably being foolish thinking it is.”

Gabriel swallows convulsively.  “Did he… you saw me a lot down there?”

“Endlessly,” Michael says quietly.

Gabriel doesn’t want to think about that too hard and Michael doesn’t seem to be in the mood.  Instead, he snaps up a soft wash rag and steps over the sink to wet it down with warm water.  Michael flinches away from him when Gabriel moves it toward his charred flesh and, to be honest, Gabriel can’t blame him very much.

“Either I get that oil off of you, or you keep bleeding like a stuck pig,” Gabriel tells him, and Michael, although certainly not comforted by the words, stills and allows Gabriel to run the cloth over his skin, hissing when the oil sinks into some of his wounds.  Gabriel wants to apologize, wants to hold Michael’s head in his lap and whisper respite, but he tries to stay methodical and detached, for his own good as well as Michael’s.

He washes Michael’s back last, trying to avoid this last part, where he has to ask Michael to bring his wings out and suffer even more.  By this time, Michael is breathing raggedly, his breaths short and gasping, and Gabriel can easily read the set of his shoulders.  He’s dragged lesser soldiers off battlefields before and he knows agony when he sees it, especially the specific kind of agony that comes along with severe wing injuries.  Michael has been luckier than some in that respect.  Gabriel has seen the aftereffects of an angel getting his wings torn off; most go mad.  Michael’s are still attached, still shifting in his vessel, but not being able to fly is a bad sign, a sign of much more intense damage than a few ripped out feathers.  Michael’s shoulder blades cinch together when Gabriel runs the cloth between them and, as much as Gabriel would love to pretend not to notice, he knows that isn’t an option.

“Can you unfold them?” he asks quietly, aching to touch Michael’s shoulder or his forehead, but too afraid of startling him.  He gets no response and he carefully moves to lie across from the broken angel, wincing at the movement of the bed underneath him.  He doesn’t touch him, but Michael opens his eyes anyway, staring at Gabriel like he isn’t certain he’s there, like this might all be a trick.  Finally, Gabriel has to hazard a touch, reaching out his fingertips to rest on top of Michael’s hand.  Michael’s gaze flickers down, but he doesn’t start.

“Can you unfold your wings?” he asks again, and Michael’s eyes squeeze shut, obviously distressed at the idea.  As much as they’re hurting him now, they’ll only hurt him worse once he exposes them, but Gabriel doesn’t have the healing skill to reach into Michael’s Grace and heal him from the inside out and he’ll be damned before he’ll bring Raphael down here to drag Michael back to Heaven in this state and start this whole disaster all over again.

“C’mon, Mike, you have to let me see,” Gabriel insists, but he has to regret it a little bit when the other angel finally manifests his wings, crying out in pain at the movement.  Gabriel pushes himself onto his knees and sits back on his heels, his eyes roaming over the newly exposed injuries.  It’s like watching a train wreck; he’s nauseous with horror, but he can’t seem to look away.

He’s never seen damage like this before.  Michael’s wings are broken and bloody, charred by fire where the feathers are still attached.  Gabriel remembers Michael’s wings as these beautiful, luminous things, pure white and soft as clouds.  He remembers following the older archangel around, tugging on them and petting them, asking if someday his own wings might be as big and lovely.  But Michael’s wings had always been the paradigm, the stuff of the Renaissance paintings, illuminated manuscripts, and stained glass windows, and no other angel had ever come close to developing anything so beautiful.  Now, they bear no resemblance to the wings Gabriel remembers.  He can barely bring himself to look at the huge, gaping holes where the larger feathers were ripped out, giving Michael’s soft wings the appearance of shredded fabric.  Most alarmingly, there are bright spots of light near the joints, his Grace bleeding out from long, ugly gashes as if someone tried to flay the appendages right off his back.  It occurs to him that Lucifer probably did and Gabriel feels a very foreign sort of nausea wash over him.  

Michael, meant to be heaven’s savior, is now nothing more than a shaking mess of pain and blackened feathers on his bed, but Gabriel can do nothing but hover anxiously, unsure of what he can do and what he’s welcome to do.  It all comes back to him so easily, why he once loved this stupid, stubborn angel, but the remembered affection only makes this whole ordeal hurt worse.  He feels useless, staring at Michael and feeling only panic and fear.  He is horrified to find that his instincts tell him to ask Michael what he should do, despite the years he spent claiming his independence.

Gabriel slides off of the bed and steps around to the edge, trying to call up his bottled up Grace into his fingertips.  The cuts between Michael’s wings are the dangerous ones, inflicted with an archangel’s blade and dug in deep enough that Michael’s Grace is visible and glowing duller every moment.  These injuries are too severe from Gabriel to heal perfectly, but he knows that it’s either try or risk Michael’s life.  His hands hover over the largest of the cuts, trying to decide just how much of his Grace he’s going to have to pour into this wound to close it.  

“Don’t,” Michael croaks, looking up at Gabriel with eyes that betray more emotional pain than physical.

Gabriel gapes at him.  “Don’t?”

“Don’t,” Michael repeats, softer this time, letting his head fall forward against the pillows once more, his face contorting in obvious agony.  “Don’t heal me.”

“I’ll be damned if you’re going to bleed to death on my bed,” Gabriel snaps, not wanting to deal with this, not now or ever again.  He hates this side of Michael, this valiant, selfless, _idiotic_ martyr who has always considering dying in God’s honor to be the best case scenario.

Michael just shakes his head minutely, trying and failing to fold his wings back in, a tiny, broken noise escaping his throat as he does so.

“Why _not_?” Gabriel demands, hands still hovering and eyes glued to the place where Michael’s Grace is exposed and slowing draining from him.  He shouldn’t have asked; he knows that the second the words leave his lips.  He rarely likes the answer when he comes to Michael.

“I deserved it,” the older angel tells him, his voice full of conviction and self-hatred.  “I failed.”

It hits Gabriel in the chest, something like a punch or the absence of oxygen, and he drops to his knees beside the bed, lowering himself to Michael’s eye level.  Gabriel feels anger well up inside of him, although he isn’t sure who would be most deserving of it at the moment.  He wants to be furious at Michael, wants to slap him across the face and scream at him, snap him out of whatever self-imposed brainwashing he’s been victim to.  Tortured for what must have felt like centuries, stuck in a cage for all his dedication to Heaven and God, and forgotten as another victim of the war that he was meant to win, and still Michael clings to what God wanted him to be.  It’s idiotic and Gabriel wants to hate him for it, but Michael curls in on himself and Gabriel can only hate destiny and the father who should be here, healing and forgiving his misguided but most loyal son.

“You didn’t deserve this,” Gabriel promises vehemently, shaking his head when Michael stares at him wearily.  “No one deserves this.”

“I was made for one purpose,” Michael continues.  “And I failed.  The punishment was… painfully appropriate.”

“Okay, new rules,” Gabriel finally growls, sitting back on his heels and steeling himself against the gruesome sight of blood and burned flesh.  “I heal you, and you shut your stupid, self-righteous face.”

Michael doesn’t say anymore, turning his face into the pillow.  If angels needed air, he might think Michael was trying to smother himself and, judging by the weak pulse of his Grace, Gabriel thinks he’d probably be successful.  The wounds in his back are deep and jagged.  Knowing Lucifer and his penchant for torture, that’s probably a better sign than shallow and precise cuts, but looking at them, Gabriel feels a little less sure of himself and his ability to heal.  He’s set bones before, but never bones in wings, which are thin and fragile.  Michael’s left wing is bent at a sickening angle, having already started to heal incorrectly, and he knows he’ll need to break the bone again in order to fix it.  His own wings ache and stir restlessly in his vessel at the thought.  But Michael is in more danger from the gash between his shoulders than anything else, and Gabriel presses his hand against it, trying to concentrate his Grace.

“You want something to bite down on?” he offers, but Michael shakes his head, his hands spasming around the sheets at Gabriel’s touch.  At the first press of Grace, Michael groans, and Gabriel can tell he isn’t doing enough to seal the wound.

“I’m sorry about this,” Gabriel tells him, before closing his eyes and shoving his Grace into the wound with twice as much force.  Michael’s Grace fights him, still trying to escape, but that’s nothing compared to the scream that pierces the air as Michael jerks beneath his hands.  A better healer would be able to handle the situation and view the pain as a necessary step in the healing process, but Gabriel aches for him, wanting to pull away and wrap him in a bandage and pray for the best.  He can feel the wound closing, though, the skin stitching itself together, and he knows stopping now would only mean that all his effort and all Michael’s pain was for naught.  He tightens his jaw and leaks more of his Grace into the cut, reducing Michael to whimpers and strangled howls of anguish.

Gabriel finally pulls away with a gasp, stumbling away from Michael and steadying himself on the bedside table.  His hands are bloody; he can feel the slickness on his palms against the wood and, were he any less exhausted, he might be rushing over to the sink to rid himself of the nauseating evidence.  His Grace is weak now and Gabriel feels thin inside his vessel, but he feels some satisfaction at seeing the jagged scar in place of the bleeding gash.  Perhaps he hasn’t totally lost his touch.

Or at least, he thinks so, until he notices the laxness in Michael’s form and realizes he’s unconscious, his vessel and his Grace choosing sleep over pain.  Only angels don’t fall asleep unwillingly.  They do, however, fade away, much like a dying star, their wings smoldering over time instead of exploding into a fiery mess on the floor.  For the second time that day, Gabriel is thrown off his game.

“No, Michael, hey,” he says frantically, wiping the blood from his hands and dropping to the floor beside Michael’s pillow.  He turns the older angel’s head as gently as he can, his heart leaping into his throat as Michael’s head simply falls back onto the pillow.  He curses, shaking Michael’s shoulder and calling out the other angel’s name again.  Michael’s wings practically rattle from the movement, but Gabriel keeps trying to jostle him back to consciousness.

“Come on, come on,” Gabriel pleads, even as he feels his hope starting to wane, staring at Michael’s slack face.  He tries not to be angry, but he resents Michael, resents God, resents everything that landed him in this position, faced with the aftermath of the war he never wanted, asked to use the few skills he has to heal the brother he never wanted to see injured.  Unconscious angels are very, very bad things, and Gabriel can’t risk him giving up on life or even just escaping his vessel, not when there’s the possibility that half the garrison is roaming Earth looking for him, hoping to set the Apocalypse in motion all over again.  Panicked, Gabriel does the only thing he can think of; he digs his fingers into one of Michael’s remaining wounds, a smaller gash near the base of his wings, his stomach turning when he feels the flesh slip around his fingers.  The resulting whimper is a horrible sound, but Gabriel’s thankful for it, every muscle in his vessel relaxing in relief when Michael’s eyes open again, staring at Gabriel in confusion and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel says, quickly snatching his hand away and hiding it behind his back before Michael can catch sight of the blood.  “You have to stay awake for me, okay?  Mike?”

Michael nods drowsily, his eyelids drooping only a little.

“Okay,” Gabriel murmurs, mostly to himself.  “Okay.  I have to… the bone in your wing has to be-”

“I can take it,” Michael mutters.  It’s not the first time Gabriel’s heard him say that.  It’s reassuring, though, that Michael is at least willing to be saved at this point.

But Michael's wing shivers under Gabriel's hands and the younger angel finds himself hesitating, searching for a way out of this.  Perhaps he should have left Michael unconscious.

“Do it,” Michael says through gritted teeth, every muscle in his shoulder bulging in anticipation of the agony.  Gabriel starts at the sound of his voice, his hands frozen, and he finally feels his composure dissipate, his expression wrecked and his fingers shaking.  Michael and his stupid, perfect wings, lying beneath his fingertips ready to be shattered all over again.  And just like that, Gabriel is back in Heaven, young and naïve, drawing an injured Michael into his bed, fussing over his latest battle wound, begging him to rest, pressing chaste kisses to the edges of scars and the swells of fresh bruises, and watching the soldier beneath his lips smile at the gesture.  Gabriel has been Michael’s comfort, his lover, his respite; he’s never been the one who caused the damage.  It’s a cruel thing that wings are so fragile, and yet so susceptible to pain.  He might as well be snapping Michael’s femur in two.

“I can’t,” Gabriel finally says, quiet and weak in a way he hasn’t felt in ages, or perhaps just since his death by Lucifer’s hands.

“I can take it,” Michael promises again even as his voice breaks.  Gabriel’s breath hitches; Michael’s still playing the role of protector, trying to stay strong for Gabriel even though it should be Gabriel’s turn to be brave, to be Michael’s strength.

“I’m not exactly unaccustomed to pain,” Michael adds.

“It’s me, though,” Gabriel argues, pleading.  “It’s me, Mike, not Lucifer, not-”

Michael’s bitter, joyless chuckle cuts him off, the sound seeping into his skin like chilled air.

“Gabriel,” Michael says, looking over his shoulder and meeting the younger angel’s gaze with eyes that hold an eon’s worth of weariness.  “If you think I’m a stranger to pain at your hands, you are sorely mistaken.”

Gabriel feels like he’s been shot in the chest.  “I… I didn’t-”

“Do it,” Michael repeats, turning away again and clenching his fists.

Gabriel’s thumbs find their place against the bone, resting against the crooked bend in the arch of the wing.  It will be easy, he knows; just a little pressure and the bone should snap across the same seam as the original break.

“Gabriel,” Michael finally growls, and Gabriel just feels his own hands move and hears the sickening crunch of bone, and the world seems to drop out from under him.

Michael screams through his teeth and Gabriel thinks he might be ill, his tight gripping faltering as Michael’s wing tries to pull out of his hand, to free itself from the torture.  The older angel loses himself for a moment, his body twisting away even as Gabriel, his heart still somewhere in his feet, tries to anchor him down to the bed, afraid that the damage might be aggravated by his struggling.

“No more,” the archangel pleads, his voice thick and his shoulders shaking.  “I’m sorry.  Please.”  Gabriel’s never seen Michael cry before and the idea that Lucifer has, the idea that Lucifer held Michael down and snapped his wing like it was nothing, lights a fire in the back of Gabriel’s mind, the same fire that once had him slaying Leviathans, accepting human sacrifices, and sending deserving men to their highly ironic deaths.  It’s not a part of himself that he’s ever been practically proud of, but it’s powerful, deeply ingrained in his very being.

“I have to set it,” Gabriel argues pointlessly.  Michael’s too far gone, probably still in Hell in his own mind, trapped under Lucifer’s hands.  Gabriel hopes he didn’t beg.  He hates the idea of Lucifer having that satisfaction almost as much as he hates the idea of Michael being in enough pain to surrender his dignity.

“I’m sorry,” Michael gasps again, his voice muffled by the pillow.  “Please.  _Please._   Don’t, no more.”

Gabriel snaps the bones back together before he can change his mind, before Michael can think about it too much, and even he lets out a miserable noise at the sound of Michael’s broken sob.  He snaps a splint into existence and carefully binds it to the bone, trying to avoid the more serious injuries on his wing in order to do so.  Although, to be honest, that doesn’t give him a lot of space to work with.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers when the work is finished, dropping down next to the older angel on the bed, trying to the maneuver Michael into his arms without startling him or making him feel even more trapped.  He rolls him over onto his side, mindful of his wings, and grips his shoulder tightly.  Michael struggles against him for only a moment before he’s clinging to Gabriel’s shirt, muttering nonsense apologies and begging for relief.

“You’re okay,” Gabriel says quietly, a lie that rolls off his tongue with a dozen more, little meaningless promises about how Gabriel can make it stop hurting, about how everything is going to work out.  “I’m right here.  You’re okay.  It’s me.  _It’s me_.”  His hands are everywhere, which is probably doing more harm than good for Michael’s mental state, but Gabriel can barely help himself, rubbing his hands down Michael’s arms and over his lower back.  He finally settles, one hand cradling Michael’s head against his chest and the other wrapped tightly around his waist, and Michael begins to slip gratefully into unconsciousness, his breathing rattling around in his chest.

Gabriel should stay awake.  He should watch over him and ensure that he doesn’t roll over onto his wings or wake in the middle of the night and try to run, but Gabriel’s Grace is pleading with him for rest and the younger angel soon finds himself unable to fight against his heavy eyelids.  He follows Michael into a restless sleep.


	2. Mending

Gabriel wakes panting, his eyes glassy and his throat tight.  Angels don’t dream, but memories filtered into his mind through his defense mechanisms all night, plaguing him with reminders of both war and better times.  To be honest, he isn’t sure which hurt worse.

Sometime during the night, they both shifted, and now Gabriel is the one wrapped up in Michael’s arms, his forehead pressed against Michael’s neck.  He swallows hard, not only because he’s still coming back to himself, but also because this is dangerous territory, a place he’s been before and walked away from incredibly scathed.  He wants to burrow closer and push away at the same time, still torn between the part of him that can never forgive Michael for everything that’s happened and the part that missed this so, so badly.  The latter part of him wins out and he presses closer, breathing in the brimstone smell of Adam’s clothing and the unique scent of Michael, like ozone and rain.

After a moment, he realizes Michael’s Grace is wrapped around his and Gabriel presses his own against it tentatively.  He hasn’t felt the Grace of another angel against his in so long, especially not in this gentle, intimate sort of embrace.  Michael’s Grace weak, so much weaker than Gabriel remembers it being, and it’s shivering in him like a small, frightened animal, ready to be attacked at any time.  Gabriel tries to soothe it, but it shrinks away from him, and Michael finally stirs, exhaling sharply as he slides back into conscious.  Gabriel closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep when Michael cautiously pushes him away, radiating discomfort.  He feels cold without the other angel pressed against him and he curses at himself for wanting it back, wanting more.

_ Not again, Gabriel. _

He’s shocked when fingers brush against his cheek.  Although he carefully schools his features, remaining still and relaxed, he takes a moment to remind himself where he is and who he’s with, wondering if it’s real or if he’s the one having delusions now.  The hand dips below his ear, Michael’s fingertips just touching the back of his neck as his thumb traces his cheekbone.  It’s an incredibly reverent gesture and Gabriel’s chest tightens as it calls about more than a dozen memories in his mind.  He missed this, the way Michael would touch him after they fought together or made love, the slow soft touch that would be nothing like a warrior’s touch if it weren’t for the calluses covering the pads of his fingers, rough from gripping a blade.  Michael was always so careful with him, taking care of him always, sometimes even over himself, and Gabriel wants to arch into that touch like a cat, feel that hand slide over his collarbone and over the muscles of his stomach, below his hips.

But the hand is gone all too quickly and the warmth goes with it.  Gabriel gives it another five minutes before he opens his eyes, feigning sleep-sensitive eyes and morning drowsiness.  He pretends to be surprised to find Michael so close, fakes a look of realization, and pulls himself away as if they hadn’t just been pressed up against one another at their deepest, most intimate level.

“Feeling better?” he asks, jumping to his feet just a little too fast.

“Yes,” Michael answers, but his wings shift restlessly and he can’t quite hide his wince as he pulls himself into an upright position, and Gabriel knows he’s still hurting.  He also knows he’s powerless to do anything about it.  At least some of the bruises have lightened and the burns seem to be a little less severe.  Michael’s Grace must be replenishing itself, which means Gabriel's tortuous work on his back must have paid off.

“Do you want something to eat?” Gabriel offers.

“I don’t need food,” Michael answers, confused by the question.

“I didn’t ask you what you needed,” Gabriel says.  He heads over to his cupboards and pulls out a bowl of chocolate truffles and a glass that he fills with water.  The mundane, domestic feel of the entire situation is disconcerting, but small talk is easier than discussing where they go from here, how long Michael should stay with him, if Michael’s going to try to demand Gabriel’s return to heaven.  But it’s still bizarre to be sitting in bed with Michael after all the years of hiding from him, sharing a bowl of truffles like it’s any other lazy morning.  Gabriel does have to smile when Michael takes a small bite out of his first truffle, new to the idea of food and taste.  He swallows and goes back to the bowl for another, so he must like them.  Gabriel is happy to know that he isn’t completely insane.

“So.  Adam,” Gabriel prompts, rolling his eyes when Michael just stares at him blankly, still chewing on a chocolate.  “He’s in heaven?”

Michael nods, swallowing and folding his hands in his lap.  “Yes.  I promised him a reward for his compliance.”

“How noble,” Gabriel scoffs.  “And you thought death was suitable reward?”

“It’s what he asked for,” Michael tells him, either failing to notice Gabriel’s tone or choosing to ignore it.  “The moment I took him as a vessel, he felt that the presence of another being in his body was too intense and he begged to be released.”

Somehow, Gabriel finds that wording to be a bit generous.  “So, you tortured him to death?”

Michael looks distressed at the thought and shakes his head before admitting, “Not on purpose.”

That was always the different between Michael and Lucifer, at least in Gabriel’s mind.  Intent.  Gabriel supposes Adam was spared the pain of several lifetimes in hell, so perhaps a quick, archangel-assisted trip to heaven was the best answer to the situation.

When the truffles are gone and Michael finishes his water, Gabriel is off the bed in a second once again, heading over to the sink.  He could snap the dishes clean, but he wants something to do with his hands and with his attention, something other than staring at Michael wondering if he’s going to break or bolt.  Now that the older angel is beginning to heal and no longer in immense agony, he’s starting to examine the room, trying to deconstruct the method in which Gabriel created it.  It was a gamble bringing him back here; now that he’s seen the inside of Gabriel’s alternate reality, he’ll always be able to find him here.  Gabriel only hopes that he doesn’t spread the news, perhaps as a favor in return for the shoddy nursing Gabriel provided.

“You always had dark-haired vessels in the past,” Gabriel mentions absentmindedly, still turned away from him as he takes his time with the dishes.  “You look a little out of place in Adam there.”

Michael looks down at the battered body of Adam Milligan, frowning slightly.  “Do I?  He’s related to Dean Winchester by blood.”

“Never really pictured you in Dean-o either,” Gabriel says.  “It’s probably a good thing that little relationship didn’t work out; you probably would have lost a hundred IQ points sitting in that moron.”

Michael sighs heavily, the same long-suffering sound he used to make when Gabriel would crack a distasteful joke at dinner, forget to protect the latest prophet, or turn Raphael’s heaven into an angry bullfrog.

“Your vessel isn’t what I expected either,” the older archangel finally says.

Gabriel has been in this vessel so long that he barely remembers what it was like to have a different one.  “No?”

“No,” Michael says, and Gabriel can practically feel his eyes roving over his body.  “I pictured something a bit more… androgynous, at the very least.”

“Yeah, well, the whole long-haired, dress-wearing, posy-holding thing didn’t exactly fly with the pagans,” Gabriel explains, smirking to himself.  “And if I’m being honest, that fashion was getting pretty old by the time I flew the cuckoo’s nest.”

“I always thought you were beautiful,” Michael tells him, stark and honest as always.

Gabriel nods slowly.  “So you always said,” he mutters, scrubbing at the dish a little harder.  He doesn’t know why – or perhaps he knows too well why – but a feeling of annoyance comes over him.  His tone is dry as he asks, “This form doesn’t do it for you, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” Michael responds simply, his voice low.

Gabriel’s grip on the dish tightens and he struggles to get a hold of himself.  The last thing he needs is broken glass digging into his palm.  He’s not sure if he’s mad or hurt or frustrated; he’s probably a combination of all three.  It’s a feeling that he’s definitely had his fill of.  “Let’s just skip this conversation.”

There’s that sigh again.  “It seems like we’ve skipped every conversation,” Michael says accusingly.

Gabriel drops the bowl into the sink with an angry _thunk_ and turns to face him.  It’s a little harder to be furious when Gabriel catches sight of him, small and still very broken, but he makes himself glare, old memories and resentment bubbling up in his awareness, relighting the flame that Gabriel spent years dousing with humor and repression.  “You’re right.  We have.  That’s the way you like it, remember?”

“No,” Michael says, his unbroken wing huddling close to his body.  His gaze turns cautious and defensive.  “I seem to recall plenty of conversations between the two of us.  Some of them more inane than others.”

“I don’t remember any conversations,” Gabriel argues, hands balling up at his sides.  “I remember you barking orders.  And I remember you telling me how things were going to happen.  But last I checked, _conversations_ were two-sided.”

“You did just as much yelling and screaming as I did,” Michael accuses.

“How the heck would you know?” Gabriel practically shouts.  “You never listened to any of it!”

Michael inhales sharply and looks away from him, his expression frustrated and bitter.  “This is pointless.”

Gabriel smiles unkindly.  “Now who wants to skip conversations?”

Michael’s glare is weary.  “You’ve always thought you knew better than I did.  There’s no point in arguing if you still suffer the same arrogance.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Gabriel snarls.

“I know who you first broke your vow of chastity for,” Michael says, eyes suddenly and uncommonly cruel.

“Shut up,” Gabriel says with too much hurt and not nearly enough anger.  “That’s all you ever knew.”

“I was there when you were created, Gabriel,” Michael points out.  “I watched our Father hand you your horn.  How can you say-”

“You know why I loved being around the pagans?” Gabriel snaps, fists clenched at his side and voice tight and restrained.  Somewhere in him, a dam breaks and his entire being floods with all the horrible things that have crossed his mind since his fall.  “Because whether they were eating with me or drinking with me or fucking me, they saw _me_.  Maybe they didn’t know _what_ I was, but they knew _who_ I was.”  He laughs humorlessly.  “You never knew, Michael.  You never even wanted to know.  You wanted someone to spread their legs for you every once in a while, and if that meant feigning love and all the other shit that goes along with it, you were willing to put up the front.  But all I ever could have been to you was Daddy’s little messenger boy.  But I was never that, anymore than you were a perfect, fearless warrior.”

Michael looks wounded now, and Gabriel’s shocked to see that there’s no anger in his eyes, just sadness and defeat.  He recalls fights in Heaven that ended with Michael in his face, yelling just as loudly and gripping Gabriel by his collar, threatening to banish Gabriel just as easily as he banished Lucifer.  This clearly isn’t the same Michael and the fight isn’t fair, but the words keep coming, held in for centuries, laced with disgust and ancient bitterness.

“You wanted so badly to be nothing more than a soldier; no emotions, no feelings for anyone else, no fear.  But you weren’t.  You never were.  And you’re never, ever going to be.”

Gabriel watches Michael’s eyes fall and his shoulders slump, and something like guilt twinges in his stomach, but it’s not enough.

“Wake up, Michael!  You lost and Dad never gave enough fucks to stick around and cheer you on anyway.  And without him and his praise and his perfect little grand plan, you snapped like a twig.  The only thing you have that makes you a soldier is two paragraphs in a book that no one reads anymore.    And you judged us, you yelled at us, you held yourself above everyone else in the host for years, when really, you were the weakest of us all.”  It’s not until Gabriel takes a breath that he realizes his voice is rough and shaky.  “So excuse me if I’m not interested in having a conversation about the time I thought you were my everything.”

He isn’t sure if it’s his own anger or the devastated look on Michael’s face that sends him running into the bathroom like a temperamental child, but next thing he knows, he’s locking the door behind him.  His hands scramble for the edge of the sink, his fingers crushing the porcelain and head hung between his shoulders.  This is everything he never wanted, everything that he wanted to avoid when he first thought of coming to Michael’s aid.  He loves Michael still, of course – who could ever stop? – but the arguments are inevitable, the only constant in their entire history.  He smacks his fist against the sink, cursing God, himself, and Michael when it cracks under his hand.

Michael, who only ever tried to get their father’s approval, who wanted so badly to be the best he could be, or perhaps even better than that.  It isn’t that Gabriel doesn’t understand him.  It’s just that those needs always came before everything: before Gabriel, before any other angel, before Michael’s own happiness.  And Gabriel can’t respect that.  He can’t look at that broken creature and tell him that his idolization of their father is okay, not when God allowed all of this to happen, not when Michael was rewarded for his loyalty with a lifetime sentence to the universe’s most inescapable torture chamber.

Even so, he can’t say that he meant to say what he said.  He can’t even say that he truly believes all of it.  Michael isn’t weak, after all.  Just lost.  And that’s something Gabriel can perfectly relate to.

He emerges with a plan to apologize, but it escapes his mind as soon as he catches sight of Michael, legs drawn up to his chest and eyes blank, as closed off as ever.  Gabriel hovers in the doorway, but he suddenly has nothing to say, no explanation for his anger or his words.  Nothing that would make everything okay again.  He’s sure there isn’t anything in the universe that could completely mend this broken relationship.

“I should go,” Michael eventually says, staring out the window.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gabriel responds casually.  “You can’t fly.  What are you going to do?  Walk to heaven?”

“Raphael could-”

“Mention Raphael one more time, and I swear…”  Gabriel cuts himself off, reigning in his temper and holding his hand out to the older archangel.  “Let me clean your wings.”

Even he’s surprised when Michael takes his hand.

The shower is too warm, contrasting with the coldness between them that Gabriel can practically feel chilling his skin.  The nakedness is easier to deal with than Gabriel thought it might be.  There’s a reason it should be uncomfortable, but the only things uniquely Michael about Michael right now are the still healing wings protruding from his back, the ones Gabriel has his hands buried in.

He washes the softer feathers first, watching the water run black as charcoal and ash bleed out of the downy and onto the tiles.  Now that they’re beginning to heal, Gabriel can take the time to reacquaint himself with Michael’s wings, which are arguably Michael’s best features.  They’re torn to shreds, but still soft and white, although many of the feathers are singed brown.  Gabriel takes care to avoid the angry, red patches near the joints where the feathers were ripped out, the skin raw and hurting.  He presses his Grace against the smaller injuries that are still visible, healing them much more easily than the open wound that threatens Michael's life earlier.  Gabriel tries to avoid getting the splint wet, which proves to be a challenge.  Despite that, he feels himself relaxing, flashing back to the times when this was regular thing, when they would sit on Michael’s bed in the older angel’s personal heaven, grooming each other’s feathers and sometimes even making them neat and slick with oil.  Sometimes it was as innocent as hair braiding, but more often than not, Gabriel would turn around as Michael worked and press his lips to Michael’s, causing them to tumble back on the mattress with smiles and soft laughter.

“I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t care about you,” Michael tells him, interrupting his thoughts.  Suddenly, he’s too close and warm, his Grace radiating all the things Gabriel has missed so badly – acceptance, friendship, and a quiet whisper of love that neither of them have completely forgotten.

“I didn’t mean that,” Gabriel says quickly, his hands stilling on Michael’s wings.

“You did.”

“I didn’t,” Gabriel insists.  “I never… I was happy for a long time, Michael.  Before the war.”

Michael turns to face him, catching Gabriel’s hands between his.  Gabriel stares down at them to avoid looking Michael in the eye.  The water is hitting them both at a strange angle now, matting Gabriel’s hair across his forehead and hitting Michael just below his chin.  If Michael didn’t have wings attached to his back and Gabriel couldn’t feel his own Grace thrumming through his veins, the younger angel would say that the scene was entirely human.  He has to admit that he feels just as vulnerable.

“Let me apologize,” Michael says.  “I know it’s not enough, but let me do it.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Gabriel groans, rolling his eyes in annoyance, mostly with himself.  “I’ve never wanted you to be sorry.  I just wanted you to be… safe.  I wanted all of you safe.”

Michael pauses for a moment, considering that.  “Well, then I’m sorry I-”

“Michael,” Gabriel interrupts firmly.  “Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” Michael says seriously, and Gabriel considers punching him in the face for all of three seconds before a tiny, playful smile appears on his lips, and then Gabriel is laughing and pushing himself up onto his toes before he can stop himself.

It isn’t until he feels Michael’s unsure fingers combing through his hair that he realizes that they’re kissing and, more importantly, that they really shouldn’t be, but his hands slide up to Michael’s face and pull him down harder, mindful of the scrapes that still linger on his flesh.  After a moment, Michael backs Gabriel against the wall of the shower, water forgotten, and slants his mouth against Gabriel’s, all traces of hesitation gone.  He pulls away with gasp when Gabriel’s hand curls around his cock, eyes searching Gabriel’s face for reassurance.

“You don’t have a duty to me anymore,” Michael reminds him, close enough that their noses are bumping.

“I never had a duty to you,” Gabriel responds, and Michael leads them back to the bedroom, stumbling as they kiss and touch the entire way there.

Gabriel melts all too easily in his arms.

Michael opens him up slowly with his fingers while Gabriel’s hands twist in the sheets above his head.  Michael’s never been a fiery, rough lover in bed.  Lucifer used to make jokes about Michael owning Gabriel’s ass, bending him over any available surface whenever he saw fit, but it was never like that, not really.  Gabriel’s been with beings like that; he’s no stranger to rough sex that leaves him sore and sated for days to come.  But Michael was first and so different from anyone else he’s ever had.  He’s diligent and selfless.  Gabriel doesn’t know if that’s a function of their relationship or a function of Michael himself.  All he knows that Michael never fails to leave him breathless and vulnerable, opened up and well taken care of.

The older angel’s fingers – new, different fingers – easily find his prostate and Gabriel’s back bows, a strangled noise torn from his throat.

“Mike, I’m ready, come on,” he says, pushing back against the fingers as they twist inside him, scissoring him open as a thumb finds the space just above his opening and makes him whine.  It’s as if his body is an instrument and Michael is a master of it, Gabriel’s gasps and moans betraying just how perfectly Michael plays.

“Fuck, it’s not like you can hurt me,” Gabriel adds desperately.

“This isn’t about not hurting you,” Michael tells him, and kisses him so thoroughly that he almost forgets his pleas.

When Michael finally pushes inside of him, Gabriel is tipped over on his side, his back pressed to Michael’s chest as the older archangel braces a hand just below his waist.  Michael’s injured wings are safe and out of the way in this position, but Gabriel has to admit that, even more than the practicality, he likes the intimacy.  He’s had a lot of sex in his time on Earth, but he missed this closeness, the feeling of Michael’s lips finding all the spots he knows from their history together, the gentle press of Grace against his own.  Gabriel feels just as wrecked as he was the first time.  Michael moves slowly – he always moves so damn slowly – and Gabriel can’t even bring himself to try to rush them, despite the torturous pace.  The hand on his hip is casually possessive, controlling their rhythm with gentle pushes and pulls.  Gabriel lets his head fall back and Michael immediately lowers his lips to Gabriel’s throat, worshipping him with feather-light kisses.  Sex inside a vessel isn’t anything like sex was in heaven, when Michael’s Grace would be right up against his and their euphoria would be shared, twice as intense and intimate, but this slow, smoldering intensity is beautiful in its own way.

In the back of his mind, he hears the same warning, the one he heard the night before he fled heaven for the last time, the one that tells him this is only going to hurt later, that this is an exercise in tedium and a total disregard for his own self-preservation.  Michael has always been under the impression that they were destined in some way, the only constant in an ever-changing and eroding heaven, but Gabriel knows that isn’t true.  In fact, he’s fairly certain that they’ve always been doomed, from the very moment they first laid eyes on one another, when Gabriel was small and cold and disoriented and Michael was scooping him into his arms and welcoming him into existence.  Maybe it was all an accident or maybe their father got his kicks by giving them opposite magnetic poles and then throwing them into a war that tore them apart.  No matter the reason behind the design, the two archangels aren’t meant to love and stay together.  Gabriel didn’t develop a penchant for loving and leaving out of nothing after all.

Gabriel wishes they were less suited for one another.  He wishes he didn’t find his balance in Michael, that he didn’t long to balance Michael in the same way.  But he’s fought the magnetic pull before.  In fact, he was pretty sure he succeeded this last time, but sure enough, here he is, pliant under Michael’s hands again, like he left heaven yesterday and not years ago.

And Father help him, he doesn’t care that Michael will leave when his wings are shiny and new once again.  He doesn’t care that they’ll wake up tomorrow and fight, that they’ll be at each others’ throats before they can even snatch their clothing from the floor.  He doesn’t even care that it’s all happened before, that he’s totally within his rights to hate Michael, that Michael would be within his rights to hate Gabriel.  Gabriel just wants him closer, safe and focused on something other than war and responsibility.  And when Michael’s hand wanders into his hair and tips his head back, the other angel still spooned up behind him and moving too slowly, Gabriel stares straight into Michael’s stupidly blue eyes and falls all over again, meeting him for a kiss that he moans a little too desperately for.

“I missed you,” Michael murmurs, almost too quietly for Gabriel to even hear, and as his breath hitches, Gabriel has to think, ‘ _Fuck destiny_.’

“Harder,” he says instead, reaching back with a hand to grip Michael’s thigh and urge him on.  Michael rocks into him again, impossibly deep, and Gabriel keens.

Michael, as always, ensures that Gabriel comes first, tipping him over the edge with firm, smooth strokes and speaking quietly to him the entire time.  The words are too familiar and too earnest, and Gabriel hides his face in the pillow as he comes, burying the hiccupping sob that threatens to leave his throat.  Michael either doesn’t notice or pretends not to notice because he keeps talking, calling Gabriel beautiful things and making promises he can’t possibly keep.  Michael is disciplined in all aspects, except when he’s buried in Gabriel.  Only then does he have desires and fears and feelings; only then is he less than perfect.

As Michael follows him over the edge, Gabriel realizes he fell from Grace the moment he fell for Michael.  Because he’ll be damned if he’s going to be obedient to God now and watch Michael kill himself trying to bring about the apocalypse, disregarding all his own hopes – the ones he claims not to have, the ones that might as well be written across his face – to be the perfect son.

The afterglow is lazy and quiet.  If they talk, if they try to translate what just happened into sense and reason, everything will dissolve, as it always does, into a million complications and arguments.  But in those few moments they have when they’re still floating in a haze of love and completeness, they can forget heaven and create their own.

“I ruined your life,” Michael says wearily when he finally speaks, running his fingertips up and down Gabriel’s arm like he’s trying to convince himself he’s actually there, solid beneath his touch.  Gabriel tries not to think about the reason behind that, all the things Lucifer probably conjured up in Hell for Michael to agonize over.

“I definitely had a hand in it,” Gabriel admits, sad to let the moment end.  “Contrary to popular belief, the world does not revolve around you all the time.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Michael says into Gabriel’s neck, close enough that Gabriel can feel his lips form the words.  “I meant it every time I told you-”

“I know,” Gabriel cuts him off.  It’s true; he’s never doubted Michael’s love for him, even when they were at each others’ throats.  Michael always loved all of them in different ways.  He took care of the angels in a way many of them never got to see.

“You never let me finish,” Michael sighs, mildly annoyed, but affection seeps into his tone.

“The sound of your voice is really grating,” Gabriel tells him through a grin.  “Kind of like that whiny noise a cat makes right before it throws up, or a- Hey!”

This time, Michael is the one who cuts him off, wrestling the smaller angel underneath him and attacking his sides with deft fingers, sending him into happy laughter, the kind that hasn’t bubbled up in his throat since he fled heaven so many years ago.

“Stay with me,” Gabriel says, his smile falling as the words leave his lips, unsure of whether or not he meant to say them.

Michael pauses, still hovering over him, caught off guard by the request.

“Gabriel,” he warns, still clinging to the glow, trying to hang onto their few moments left together.

But it doesn’t have to end, and Gabriel adds more confidently, “I mean it.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he answers slowly.

“You can do whatever you want,” Gabriel says with a shrug, as if it’s easy, as if it doesn’t challenge everything Michael is.

“I don’t believe in free will, Gabriel.”

“What is this, then?” Gabriel asks, gesturing vaguely to the bed.  “What did we just do?  You really think Dad intends for us to dance around each other like this?”

“I don’t know what Father intended,” Michael admits, sounding distressed, mostly likely wrestling with the idea that he was meant to fall into the Cage.

“Well,” Gabriel says.  “Wait here until you find out.”

“I have duties,” Michael argues halfheartedly.

“You’re a fallen soldier as far as anyone upstairs is concerned.  You’ve earned a vacation.  And you need rest.  Give yourself time to heal.”

But Michael just pulls away from him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.  Gabriel can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s upset, probably angry at Gabriel for asking that of him, tainting the love they just made by returning to their old patterns of discussion.  But Gabriel also sees the internal struggle in him, the need for a break, for a respite from being the strong one, the one set up on a pedestal.  He sits up to join the older angel, slipping his hand into Michael’s and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“You’ve always felt this need to carry everything heavy on your shoulders alone,” Gabriel says with a sad smile.  “Go heavy on me for a change.”

Michael sighs that same sigh once more, but this time it sounds like a decision, the older angel’s resolve beginning to crumble.  “It sounds like I’ve gone heavy on you for quite a while now.”

“Yeah, well.  I knew you were a first class asshole when I ‘broke my vow of chastity’ for you,” Gabriel teases, grinning when Michael glares at him weakly.  “Which, by the way, is total bullshit, because I was basically created with a vow of chastity, you know?  I wasn’t even consulted before-”

Michael interrupts him with a soft kiss, and Gabriel thinks he can feel the promise in it.

“Please shut up,” Michael groans when he pulls away, rubbing his temple tiredly, but he mirrors Gabriel’s fond expression when he looks up again.

“We’ll wait for Dad to come back.  And when and if he does come back, we’ll follow his orders,” Gabriel suggests, not entirely truthfully.  He guides Michael to lay down on his side, mindful of his wing.  “Until then, who’s to say this wasn’t the plan?”

Michael doesn’t respond to that, his eyes slipping closed as Gabriel covers him with a blanket and gets to his feet, preparing to outfit his home with a few extra sigils.  It won’t be enough to keep Michael in, but it’ll keep prying eyes out.  Gabriel supposes that he’s hiding for two now.

“Thank you,” comes a soft murmur from the bed, and Gabriel meets Michael’s half-lidded eyes.  “For taking care of me.”

Gabriel gives him a little half smile.  “Ditto.”

Michael falls asleep quickly after that, overtired and still recovering, and Gabriel doesn’t know for certain that he’ll stay.  But something twinkles in the back of his mind, in the same place he first felt Michael’s presence when the archangel escaped Lucifer’s Cage.  Except this time, it’s softer and warm.  Gabriel’s no expert in the subject, but he thinks it sort of feels like hope.


End file.
